10/23/2026
Great parenting techniques where you meet your young person where they are, sit with them in their emotions, and allow them the space to decide when they want to talk it through.
I picked up my son from his high school football practice last night, and I could tell something was wrong as he walked toward the car. His head was down, his shoulders were hunched forward, and his feet stomped the ground.
He is not a small kid anymore. At 17, he'd just gone through a growth spurt and passed the six-foot mark. He spent the summer in the gym, and you can sometimes see muscles bulging through his shirt. His voice is deep and loud and carries for miles.
But last night, he texted me mid-practice, asking if I could pick him up in an hour.
My response: "Of course." I thought it was odd. He always received a ride home from one of his buddies, boys he's grown up with since kindergarten. My spidey sense was tingling, so I arrived super early, eagerly awaiting to see his face.
But I was right. Something was wrong.
My gentle giant of a son threw his gear into the back of my car, slammed the door, and dropped into the front seat like an anvil into the sea.
"Hey," I asked softly. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," he growled. "I just want to go home."
So I drove the four miles to our house, glancing at him occasionally, my heart beating so fast I could feel it pulsing in my head. Each time I looked over, I saw the anger in his face slowly turning into sadness.
When I finally pulled into our driveway and parked in our garage, I turned the key and sat for a second, scared to move. And that's when my son broke down and cried. He cried like he did when he was six, and his turtle died, or when his sister stole his favorite Power Ranger, or when he fell off his scooter and skinned his knee.
I wanted to take him into my arms, wipe his tears away, and tell him everything would be okay, but the truth was, I didn't know what was wrong, so I didn't know what to say.
I remembered a Ted Lasso episode I just watched last week. In a moving scene, assistant coach Alice is feeling completely overwhelmed with emotion and retreats to her office, where she breaks down in sobs. Ted tells her that she doesn't need to talk, but he's just going to sit with her for a little bit.
But it's so much more than that. Ted positions himself right next to Alice, breathes deeply and slowly, and eventually her breathing starts to mirror his. This technique is called co-regulation, when a calm person's nervous system helps ease a dysregulated person. It is an extremely powerful tool to help people who have anxiety or may be having a panic attack (like Ted did in previous seasons.)
So, I sat in the driver's seat, looking straight ahead, and just tried to breathe. In for three, out for three. Over and over. Again and again.
The next time I looked over at my son, his tears had slowed, his jaw looked unclenched, and his breathing matched mine.
He looked over at me and gave me a closed-lip smile. "Sorry, Mom. My day just sucked. I don't really want to talk about it right now, but I might lose my starting position, and that recruiter canceled his visit. It just seems like everything is falling apart. Can we just go in now and talk later?"
"Yep," I said. A different version of me from a few years back would have prodded and begged for him to talk, but I'm on my third teenager, and I've figured a few things out. I wish I'd known this trick a few years back, though.
I've pieced a few things together since that short drive home. I think a girl he liked started dating one of his friends. He didn't do well on a test. And a coach gave him a stern talking-to in front of the team. My son did not do well when he felt embarrassed.
I'm so happy my son didn't take his anger out on anyone else. He called his mom, and I hope I taught him something important while we sat together in our garage. A few deep breaths, someone to sit with you through your pain, and a good night's sleep can get you through a challenging moment.
Thanks, Ted. You've done it again.
